Reminiscens
by Angie-Lily
Summary: I hope you are happy Lauren because of you this unfinished thing is gonna be published


In an explosion of purple electricity and static, Haggar was ejected from Zarkon's mind and a pained grunt escaped from her lips. The flashes of Zarkon's memories were fresh inside the witch's mind, vivid, and soon she made them her own. It all came back to her in a heartbeat, making her stumble backwards and fall to the ground, away from the table where the Emperor lay. She caught her breath, overwhelmed by the images storming before her eyes, her ears buzzing as the burn of electricity tickled her palms.  
At last, the fog that had obscured her mind for over ten thousand years lifted, allowing her to remember every detail of what her life had been like until she became the Witch. Haggar.  
Haggar, the galran word used to designate the wicked, the sorcerers, the sinners. The creatures like the one that she had become. Merely a shadow; a bony, pale, and obscure demonic figure.  
But Haggar now remembered that she wasn't always a witch. Long ago, there was a time when she was truly alive, radiant, and when her existence wasn't about surviving. No, she hadn't always been mangled, torn, reliant on quintessence and dark magic to keep her cold heart beating.  
She had once been beautiful, her skin tanned and her eyes bright, Altean markings colouring her cheekbones like twin crimson moon crescents. She used to pull her hair up in a loose bun, and smelled of juniberry flowers. She wasn't hunched, she wasn't fierce; she was soft and she stood tall above her control panel, her long, slim fingers dancing on the keyboard. When she wasn't exhausting herself over unfinished work and experiments in her laboratory, which, as the years past, became rarer and rarer, a delicate silver ring ornated her finger as a sign of her vow to her love, Zarkon. Her husband.

"Husband." Haggar voiced almost skeptically, her eyes squinted as to distinguish the letters forming inside her mind. It seemed ridicilous that she had spent the last milennias serving her Emperor loyaly and unmistakably whitout knowing the intimate bond that they had shared. Whitout knowing that they had spent a lifetime together before this one.  
"How could I have forgotten?" she almost lamented as she turned to the unconscious figure of her husband, still alimented by neon-pink tubes of quintessence and magical substances.  
She remembered how Zarkon managed to make her shiver by merely saying her name, Honerva, by touching her shoulder, by holding her delicate hand in his long, dark purple fingers. It amazed her how the flow of quintessence inside her veins had been able to throw such a jumble inside her head that so many decaphebes had been wiped whitout leaving a trace, inaccessible to her.  
A wave of nostalgia hit the witch, making her stomach ache and her throat burn. She felt guilty, in a way, to never have fully repayed Zarkon for the sacrifices he had done in an attempt to cure her when she had found herself failing, weakened by the overexposure to quintessence. And at the same time, she felt ashamed to have found herself so vulnerable before her Emperor, madness twisting her mind and quintessence calling to her like a drug.  
She found herself unable to explain how their bond had survived death to mutate into a profound mutual trust and partnership, how it could have survived such a transformation when her memories had been corrupted and locked away.  
And suddenly, it all made sense to her now.

Husband. Wife.

Of course. Of course!  
She had forgotten. But he hadn't . All these years. It explained it all. For all these millenias. He'd remembered. He'd known. He'd been testing her. Watching her.  
Trying to get back to her.  
Trying to get her back.  
Hoping?  
She could see it crystal clear. Haggar braced herself and held her breath, as all the memories came back at once.

******

Cold.  
It was the first thing she felt when she awoke. It hit her with violence, paralyzing her, choking her. She shot upright, the red sheet that was covering her falling off her chest. It felt like she had jumped into an icy lake, and was stuck underwater, unable to move, unabe to speak. She fought for her breath, inhaling, gasping, nearly sobbing as she couldn't seem to get enough. Her lungs burned, and yet they were stone cold, filling and emptying inside her chest at an accelerate rate but never seeming to fulfill their role. She coughed uncontrollably and snaked her shaking hands around her neck, cold skin again cold skin, her talon-like nails burying into her purple flesh. Sharp pain shot through her frame, adding to the panic, and she felt a low growl coming from deep down inside her throat. Struggling to regain her composure, she forced her mouth shut to prevent her vocal chords from betraying her. She focused on taking deep, calm breaths in an attempt to slow down the frenzied rhythm of her beating heart.  
Her heart.  
Soft pounding under her bony fingers. Like drums slowly beating the measure of a dreadful valse, or of a deadly symphony. A nightmarish melody no one would hope to hear or to play, but would rather forget, banish.  
The thought of being alive didn't bring her any comfort. On the contrary, it sent an extra shiver running down her spine, and she gritted her teeth. She felt like she didn't belong. She felt wrong. Out of place. Icy. She could be a frozen statue, for all she knew. A shard of frost.  
She felt, deep down, that she shouldn't be alive. But now, it was too late. She breathed in and out, slowly, the pounding of her heart getting weaker and weaker, but never fully stopping, mocking her. Taunting her with every beat.  
You don't die. You won't die. You won't die.  
She let her fingers slide down her throat in defeat, grasping at the fabric of the cloak she happened to be wearing. She brought it defensively over her shoulders, holding it close in an effort to warm herself up.  
She was so cold. Too cold. Closing her eyes, she focused on the flows of energy running through her body, trying to imagine them serving as conduits of heat. For a split second, she though she saw something strong, hidden there, but it vanished as soon as she though she had perceived it. She pushed further into her veins, concentrating, but she couldn't find it, whatever what it was.  
What was this?

But taking her aback, something else started bothering her, something new; as soon as she was calm enough that she could breathe without her lungs tearing her from the inside out.  
Exhaustion.  
It hit her with violence. She sagged, her shoulders crumpled, her entire frame tense. Her body ached and shook, lonely and broken.  
Lonely?  
Yes, lonely.  
Realisation slowly crept into her. She felt it again; she wasn't supposed to be alive. She was...Unique.  
But the word didn't fit. It was far too innocent. Too commun. No she was...  
Exceptionnal.  
Unnatural.  
Who was she?

She swung her legs out of the covers and they collided with the floor, sending electricity through her entire body as her sensory captors were startled awake.  
What am I?  
She felt her ears start buzzing. She could feel energy flowing through her skin, roaring inside her palms; radiating from her glowing eyes. Pure power.  
Quintessence.  
How do I know this?  
She couldn't explain. She couldn't think, she couldn't possibly know.  
It was too much. She fell to the ground, unable to stand. She curled up against the table and her mind was fuzzy, so fuzzy she couldn't settle herself on which question to ask herself first.  
Her breath shook once more as she started shivering, cold, her eyes on the spotless floor before her her. She could feel them burning.  
She didn't understand.  
Why?  
Why? Why was she there? How was she there?  
She remembered darkness. She remembered pain. She remembered being alone.  
Alone?

No. Not alone. She hadn't been. Not then, not now. Despite the confusion, she had detected something beside her. Hadn't she?  
It had looked like something plain, something long. Another table? She couldn't tell, she had barely acknowledged it. And yet she was so sure there was more to it...  
But how?  
She hadn't just percieved it, no. She had... felt it. The air in the room was too.. heavy. Too rich for her to be alone.  
Another body, she thought. Covered in a crimson red blanket. Unmoving. She could picture it now, as if she had seen it with her own two eyes.  
A body. A dead one. And yet, so close to life... She could feel the air waver around it. It felt warm, but she knew if was just her mind playing tricks.  
Stop this, she ordered herself.  
Nothing about death was warm. It felt inviting, secure; it was full of promises-but it was cold, it was savage. It was a lie she wouldn't fall for. Not again.  
I know you too well now, she thought scornfully. You won't get to me.

She was too tired. She wished she could forget. She did not want to know, she did not want to see.  
She wanted to understand.  
She could feel so many things, she could almost hear them, touch them with her mind. Light, energy, life, yes, life itself, and more then that- quintessence.  
Quintessence. Hiding in plain sight, invisible and yet so tangible, flowing inside inside her veins in all directions at once. That was what she had felt! This... presence. Filling her.  
Words were not enough to describe it's peculiar nature. They were too limited whereas quintessence, in itself, was infinite. It new no boundaries. It had no shape, no taste, no consistence, no colour. It was just... there. It always had been. Everywhere. In everything. Overwhelming.  
Vanishing.  
Now she felt the burning inside her veins, the throbbing of her brain against her skull. She felt empty, so empty. That flow inside her, surrounding her; she felt it waver, slip out of her grap. She held on to it like grim death, but she wasn't strong enough to stop it from deserting her.  
She felt powerless and exposed, too cold to even shiver.  
Quintessence.  
It was the only thing she truly knew, the only certitude she had in the middle of this ocean of ignorance she was drowning into. She was too weak to reach for it.  
No, it's not vanishing, she realised. It's corrupted.  
That quintessence she was feeling. It was weaker, duller. This was not what had vanquished her trespass. All around her her, from the very air she breathed to the steel in the walls and the fabric of her clothes, everything felt so ephemeral. Fragile. The purity of life was constantly poisoned by the mere existence of the livings, by their finitude. By their desire to stay alive.  
Quintessence was eternity and power, but mixed something as impure as death, it found all of its potential wasted. Such beauty, such perfection lost into nothingness, such power left unexploited!  
This could not do. As her lips began to quiver from the cold, the undead started to feel the call of this substance, unexplored yet, barely out of her reach. Its touch was reassuring and its presence necessary, giving each thing and meaning and place in the universe.  
She shuddered. She needed a way to feel it again, she craved to fill in the void inside her. She coverted the feeling of having once again the strings of this exquisite power at her fingertips, puppeteer of the flows in the universe.  
She wanted more. So much more!  
Calling to her like a drug, quintessence was the only thing her mind could process in the dark and empty room.  
Quintessence.  
She was cold.  
Quintessence.  
Her eyes burned.  
Quintessence.  
It wouldn't matter. As soon as she'd have it back, the rest -the pain- wouldnt matter.  
Quintessence.  
Quintessence.  
Quintessence.  
Quintessen-  
Something touched her.

******

Zarkon stood tall and solemn, contemplating the galaxy that lay before him when Haggar stepped closer. She had excellent news to procure to him

Haggar narrowed her eyes as she tried to decipher his statement. What did he meant by "we"?

"Observe," he said as he stared directly into her soul. "The product of our hard labour."  
The witch obeyed and lifted her chin to let her eyes wander across the scenery before her. There wasn't a single shimmering light in this dark ocean that wasn't his- theirs. From the Jahoï Territories to the Rotherian System, all of them now bore the Galran emblem and obeyed Emperor Zarkon's will. They had conquered a new realm.  
Reaching out with her mind, Haggar projected herself towards this freshly dominated galaxy, and she felt a profound satisfaction overcome her as she acknowledged the quantity of resources that were now under her thumb -as a scientist, naturally. Quintessence, in this young fraction of the cosmos, was much purer than the one she'd observed in older colonies. It was balanced beautifully between the stars and worlds, dancing gracefully around the sun in the far distance. It made sense, Haggar thought, to find it so close to purity here; younger planets, stronger star, species with a longer lifespan -in such pristine conditions, death hadn't had time to corrupt it as much as it had elsewhere.  
Many flows of energy came and went whithout interruption, fresh and vivid, much to the witch's delight. She would have enough here to occupy herself and her Druids in a long time.

Probably noticing the ghost of a satisfied smile appear on her face, her Emperor continued.  
"Observe your Empire," he murmured in a soft tone he rarely employed.  
Our Empire, Haggar corrected mentality as she figured his tongue ought to have slipped.  
Her yellow eyes lingered towards the tail of the Cirnaton constellation, which she knew to be one of planet Henmor's moons shining in the distance.  
"Isn't it beautiful?"

The witch blinked the memories away, and her eyes settled on the unconscious figure of her Emperor once again. The air was still charged with electricity, sparkles running through her hair and around his body, getting dangerously close to his face. For a split second, she was afraid that she had failed.  
But when she reach our with her mind, she could feel so much power running through his veins that she knew ; he was close to finally awaking.  
Close to finally coming back to her.  
Finally she could pay her debt.  
"You brought me back all these years ago," Haggar said in a cracking voice that reflected her longing to at last reunite with her husband. "Now... Come back for me."  
As she uttered these words, the witch couldn't help but wonder what was to be expected. Surely, nothing could return to what had been before. But surely, he couldn't remain stone cold either, and neither could she. Unless...  
Had all of this been the product of her fantasy? Her tricky mind, so wicked it had right up ended tricking herself?  
Could it be...

A heartbeat, and a sharp purple glow illuminated Zarkon's face as he burst his eyes open, looking more alive and sturdy that he had been in weeks. Haggar felt herself shrink as her body tensed, her blood pulsing inside her veins.  
Perhaps he remembered.  
Hopefully he remembered.  
Surely he remembered.  
Slowly Zarkon rose on what, a few minutes prior, seemed like his deathbed, his eyes glowing an uncharacteristically bright purple. He let out a powerful breath, his shoulders relaxing as he came back to life.  
Haggar shuddered. He was so majestic, sitting amidst the curtain of tubes still connected to his plastron, defying Death herself for the second time in his long life. Surviving.  
Just like all these years ago, when he was first reborn as the absolute conquerer he was now. Undefeated. Except this time it wasn't quintessence that brought him back, but the witch, the haggar, Honerva. The one person who had ever shared his bed and bore his name.  
Haggar could only stare, in awe. Her yellow eyes were on his face, her teeth clenched as the same question played in her mind again an again, slowly leading to the same conclusion.  
Did he remember?  
Did he know?  
Or did he not?  
Had he lost his memories the same way that she did?  
Was she just a witch among the others to him?  
Had all this even been real?  
Or could he truly have forgotten her?  
Rejected her?  
No, he couldn't have.  
He remembered. She had just seen it. She had just felt it. It had to be true.  
He knew.  
And he had known.  
There was no other way.  
All these times he'd let her go rogue, all these failures that she did not to have to pay the price for, all these precautions he'd forced her to take when she prepared to feed him off quintessence... The concern. The mercy. Her name. Everything.  
There was no way they had all been coincidences.  
For all these years, he'd remembered.  
And he'd watched her fade away, like a stranger, he'd watched her keep her distances, he'd watched her and he'd remembered, and he'd never just once confronted her about it. He had sacrificed his life to get his wife back, and had got a infallible soldier instead. A witch. A haggar.  
Maybe, after such a long wait, he had given up on her. Maybe she didn't matter anymore. Surely, nothing but Voltron mattered anymore. Zarkon had succeeded in building himself an Empire. He was the Supreme Ruler. He was an Emperor, he didn't need and Empress.  
Surely, he could do without her?  
But no, she told herself. It can't be.  
This was Zarkon. Zarkon never gave up on anything. Not his Empire. Not his strength. Not his son.  
He couldn't give up on his wife.  
I am still here, by his side, she deadpaned.  
No one could stand by his side, unless he needed them to. But more importantly, unless he wanted them to.  
He still wanted her. It was the only way.  
Husband, she repeated internally. Husband.  
Husband. He had to remember.  
But what then?  
Haggar- no, Honerva- was terrified. She was terrified that all would change. She was terrified that nothing would change. She did not even know what she wanted.  
Just a sign, she hoped. I have to know.

Interrupting her silent plea, Zarkon turned her eyes on to her, his throat producing this grave humming noise he would do when considering something or expressing his approval. For once, Honerva couldn't quite decipher how to interpret that sound.  
The Emperor remained silent, as in deep in thought, considering her ghostly figure spawled on the floor. Amidst the shadow casted by the hood on her tortured face, her eyes glowed like two yellow ambers, and the red markings below them traced what seemed to be unshed blood tears, dripping from her chin. The witch opened her mouth to say something, but no sound came out and she remained on the floor, mangled like a puppet whose strings had been cut.  
She did not know what to do. So she remained motionless, unable to think, unable to speak.  
After what seemed like deca-pheobes had passed, suspended between the two creatures staring into one another's eyes, Zarkon finally spoke.  
"Haggar?"  
His voice was low and cautious, as if he were insuring himself of what he was seeing.  
Honerva's mind froze instantly.  
Witch.  
Witch? No, she wasn't a witch. He should know that. He shouldn't be calling her that.  
My name is Honerva, she thought feverishly. You know this. Honerva.  
Honerva.  
"Haggar," he repeated when she didn't show any sign of understanding. His tone was much more authoritary now.  
His eyes seemed to pierce right through her, their purple glow setting her soul on fire. He seemed furious.  
Honerva's eyes shot to the ground instantly, both in a gesture of submission and of pain. She couldn't help the gasp that escaped her lips as she did so.  
He didn't know.  
She had been so sure. Had she imagined it all? Had she been wrong? But all these memories she had seen inside his head-how could he have not seen them too?  
Or maybe...  
Maybe he did see them.  
Maybe he just didn't care. Maybe none of it mattered now.  
It doesn't matter.  
Maybe he was right.  
It doesn't matter, Haggar repeated herself.  
She thought of that vow they had done to each other long, very long ago.  
Until death does us apart.  
Until death teared them away from each other. Until death came, they would cherish one another.  
Then death had come. It had taken her first, violently, mercilessly, and shortly after, it had taken him as well, cynically. They both had died, and yet they had both survived, by the darkest fate there was. Their vow had been broken but, contrary to them, it hadn't been revived. It had been lost forever to the fangs of death, and there was no saving it. It was now time for a new era.  
It doesn't matter, the witch thought again. I brought him back. That's all that matters.  
Nothing else should.  
"Haggar."  
Haggar bowed her head. She had to focus. Yes. Lotor. The Empire. These were the reasons she came in for in the first place. Why she had decided to wake Zarkon. To do so, se had gotten into his head; she had to beg for his forgivness now.  
"My apologies," she muttered under her breath, and her words meant so much more than he could possibly imagine. "Sire," she forced herself to add.  
Lifting her chin, she stared at him almost defiantly. Somehow, the long scar under his left eye mirrored her own markings, those of an Altean whose madness had led to the progressive shift into a monstrosity.  
Madness. Dedication. Did the difference even matter anymore?  
Not even flinching, the Emperor stared right back at her, his jaw tense.  
"What did you say?" he inquired, almost brutal.  
"I said," Haggar repeated curtly, not at all pleased by his change of tone, "that I am sorry, Sire."  
But Zarkon didn't look impressed. He squinted, considering her answer, not quite satisfied with something.  
"Before that," he indicated, and Haggar's breath caught. "I heard you say something."  
The witch felt her hands ache as she tried to dig her nails into the ground. She scoffed with fury, brushing him off.  
"I doesn't matter," she spat as an echo to what she'd repeated herself before.  
It doesn't matter.  
"Perhaps."  
His voice was grave. Unmoved. Haggar looked away. But he continued.  
"Perhaps not."  
Haggar closed her eyes. This was her cue to leave. She summoned the strength she had left and prepared to get on her feet and leave the chamber. Pulling the Emperor out of his comatose had emptied her from most of her magic, and she needed quintessence to pull through the day. Her suspicions about Lotor could wait.  
Slowly, she got up to her feet, and turned her back to Zarkon. She had other places to be.  
"Well. If you will excuse me then-"  
"Honerva."  
It was said very casually. Almost softly. Haggar stopped dead in her tracks, and her eyes met her husband's instantly. Instinctively. They were half closed, not so threatening now that their aggressive glow had faltered to reveal the deepness of his gaze.

He had lied about her was merely the only way he had found to test her. Trying to trigger a reaction, a memory, anything. She was sure of it now.  
He knew. He really did.  
And he wanted her to remember.  
Turning her body to face him, she struggled on what to say. What to do. She hesitated. It felt like she was seeing him for the first time all over again, so strong and so bright it hurt.  
Zarkon seemed to notice her pained expression. His nails scratched against the metal of his promontory, barely audible, before he broke the silence again.  
"Come to me."  
Honerva could but only obey. She took a few careful steps, hey eyes never leaving the Emperor's as one would do when facing a wild animal. His expression was indecipherable, perfect balance betwen peace and agitation. Unbrakeable.  
When she estimated that she was close enough, she went immobile, her hands clenched into fists.  
"Sire," she saluted.  
His brow creased.  
"Well?"  
"Here I am," she answered calmly.  
At last, she thought, but she didn't say.  
He hummed.  
"Let me see you."  
Honerva's expression darkened, but he was unperturbable. After a few seconds of resistance, she reached reluctantly for her cloak, and slowly pulled her hood off her head. Her white hair glowed pink against the bioluminescent tubes, and her frown looked much less frightening whitout a constant shadow obscuring her grave features.  
Zarkon observed her in silence, his finger twitching slightly as she drew in a shallow breath.  
"You remember," he said, and it was more of a statement than of an interrogation.  
Breathing suddenly felt a lot easier as he said these words. Honerva's expression softened, and she allowed her shoulders to relax.  
You remember, she corrected internally as Zarkon's composure mirrored her own, and he closed his eyes.  
"Honerva," he repeated, each syllable resonating inside his throat as he uttered them.  
"Yes," she replied gently.  
Zarkon hummed again, much softer now.  
A comfortable silence settled between the two, and Honerva let her fists uncurl against her robe. Zarkon stayed motionless for some time, his face shut as if he were asleep. When his lids fluttered open again, his expression was much less strict and he held out his hand, palm up, for her to take.  
Honerva settled her gaze on his clawed fingers, picturing them crushing his enemies' throats with fury, skilfully and lethaly. For some reason, they didn't look so sharp and threatening to her, but welcoming- and she knew that she risked nothing from them. When she looked up to his face and then into his eyes, she could imagine whitout any effort his brown pupils staring back right into hers, so much so that it didn't bother her not to find them there. As long as she could remember their warmth and their sharpness, it would suffice.  
She took a hesitant step forward and, when Zarkon didn't flinch, she proceeded with more confidence. With a delicacy that she wouldn't have thought herself capable of in the past ten thousand years, her hand slowly rose in the air to met her husband's. Her skin slided against his own, their palms fitting perfectly together as two pieces of the same puzzle. His large hand curled around her smaller hand, shielding her from the emptiness of the chamber. He pulled her closer, never loosing sight of her face as she shifted to the side, sitting on the edge of the bed by his lap.  
They hadn't been this close in an eternity, they hadn't made a physical contact in a thousand lifetimes. They'd been far away from each other, and further apart as they had crawled under duties and projects and the overwhelming need of quintessence.  
Honerva could but only hope that she hadn't pained her husband too much in this long wait, and that he could forgive the harm that had been done for them to, truly this time, get a fresh new start.  
But if anything, Zarkon surely didn't appear to be resentful. On the contrary, he seemed relieved, despite the apparent tiredness giving his face a palish colour.


End file.
